Human Error ~ A BBC Sherlock Fanfiction {Book IV}

Chapter LXXI - Lucky Ace

-Emily-

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"Catch."

I throw the newspaper in Sherlock's general direction and sit down beside him, heavily. He doesn't look up.

"Anything interesting?"

"Death in Chelmsford. Politician scandal," says Sherlock, turning a page with each derogative summary. "Another death. Break-in. Death. Scandal. Death. Scandal." He tosses the paper onto the coffee table. "Dull."

"No cases?"

"Oh, plenty. Mycroft tried to convince me to take up one about a resurrected bride – Ricoletti, I think. Most interesting case I've had in months."

"Then why are you still here?"

"I'm missing a blogger and an accomplice," says Sherlock, flatly. "Besides, I'm tracking an invisible man. You should be too."

"I am."

"You're not doing a very good job at it."

"I'd like to see you do better."

Sherlock opens his mouth to commence our daily, verbal sparring match – but I decide to snub this row in its infancy with a nod towards Millie's room and a curt, "How is she?"

He closes his mouth.

"Mrs Hudson said she seemed better," I say, answering my own question. "Although from what I hear, meals are still a problem."

This is a gross understatement.

Two weeks ago, Millie's mental state took a catastrophic dive. Withdrawal dug its claws into her psyche and tore her fragile recovery to tatters – she must have been running on shock, previously, because her exposure to cocaine had seemed relatively minor in the face of other problems.

It started with the shaking.

What I had perceived as nervous anxiety was in fact her body's delayed cry for chemical alleviation; shaking became skull-splitting headaches, and headaches became wild-eyed desperation. I can't count the number of times she has emptied drawers and cupboards and bags in an attempt at finding a stray packet of painkillers. She wouldn't eat. She couldn't sleep. I heard her pacing at night.

Then came the violence.

She was never physically violent – she's lost so much weight in the last month, I'm surprised she can carry herself from room to room – but for what she lacked in strength she compensated for in vicious verbal backlash. Her mood fluctuated hourly. She attacked me for suggesting she rested, claimed I treated her like a psychiatric patient and blamed her relapse on me, for not having seen past his smile and bravado and charm and for allowing her terror to become a reality. I'd been more than prepared to choke her right there in the Baker Street kitchen – but then she stopped and covered her mouth, wide-eyed and horrified by her own cruelty. Violent shifts in mood were replaced by equally violent bouts of vomiting; a side-effect of cocaine usage, and one that has Millie doubled over a bowl every morning. It is unrelenting.

"No one can deceive like an addict."

"You would know."

"I'm not an addict," says Sherlock, retrieving the discarded newspaper. "I'm a user. A selective user. Never recreational."

I roll my eyes. He permits himself a tight-lipped smile. Perhaps he's in a good mood today, after all.

"Mrs Hudson told me she turns down her food."